orphic
“What all great gardens have in common are their ability to pull the sensitive viewer out of him or herself and into the garden, so completely that the separate self-sense disappears entirely, and at least for a brief moment one is ushered into a nondual and timeless awareness.”
I am not the person to make a list of ‘to-do’s’ before I thrust myself into the unknown. I lack a certain panache for detail. I am organized and efficient, though necessary particulars move laterally like grapes in a salad—impossible to seize and neglected until the end of the meal when the moment has passed.
I find technicalities overwhelming when I think too much about any specific subject.
I am the person who forgets to pack sunscreen for the beach. I get this shortage from my mother. I remember swimming in my undergarments as my mom typically forgot to pack our swimsuits. My sisters and I would strip to our bones and tie our shirts and skirts on the bike rack atop our van to dry on the ride home. In the summer of ‘99, we realized the pleasure of swimming naked in Okanagan Lake. A vacant beach and a long drive to the campground by nightfall prompted us to undress and saunter to the water’s edge, where we frolicked in the salt wearing only sunscreen. The sunshine warmed our backsides in the cold water, and our sundresses warmed our wet bodies as we rolled home under a canopy of winking stars.
I leap headfirst despite the rigorous lifeguard training that taught me to hop foot first into unknown waters.
One could never call me reckless. I’ve never strayed too far out of bounds. I’ve never pulled the line roughly, so it breaks. I know how far to push and when to say enough. Keen opportunism is anchored in a deep sense of intuition. I understand my limitations—I’ve always been a passenger and never the motorcycle driver.
Perhaps this is why I’ve constantly been paired with individuals who catch the line just as I am about to drop it. Something in my subconscious feels for what I do not have. The senses play a significant role in the arousal of our species: the waking up and removal of sensation. Animals and humans extend themselves to the outside world, towards a particular place or person, based on unconscious cues. Chemosignals outperform Tinder unless we are forced to remain masked in plexiglass.
Pheromones are “substances secreted to the outside by an individual and received by a second individual of the same species.”
Scent illicit an immediate chemical reaction; those specific, comforting, nostalgic, and mysterious aromas dictate our intent.
I digress to share that I subconsciously sniff out individuals who complement my complexities. Pairing based on olfactory cues is more potent in women. I trust that I’ll inhale my next mate like an airborne aphrodisiac. I’ll use my body’s symmetry as the lure. Men respond to equilibrium. So do women.
I descant on this subject of attraction through the opposition as a lengthy introduction to my first hike into the Grand Canyon with Macey.
Pack list (split between two bags):
Overnight oats.
Notebooks + writing utensils.
Wool blanket.
French press.
Coffee + creamer.
Compact stove.
Camera.
Water bottles.
Chocolate chip cookies baked with pretzels.
We leave at 8:30 PM to drive to an unregulated campground forty-five minutes away from the Canyon. The drive is through a tunnel of dark. Tufts of pale wild brush border the road. It’s really a beautiful drive, Macey says. You’ll see when it’s light out. I enjoy the feeling of being swallowed by night. I am on the tongue of Hades watching the road by a sliver of moon, the First Quarter in Cancer.
Your diligence and direction are extraordinary, Capricorn. Wherever you mark your aim, you nail the target. Nothing ever deters you from the chosen task, so select carefully before you make the leap to the next event. Use this time to construct the foundation for the next phase. The path needn’t be easy or well-defined. You simply need compassion and resolve to embark on this great adventure. Danger is unavoidable.
The path is gravel. Uneven, dusted by grass and thorn. Parched and scented by sarcasm. The inhabitants of such a brittle landscape are sardonic and biting. I recognize locals with their cracks and lacking curves. The cold night sky reminds me of the boat. I feel remiss. The backs of my hands are dry. My hair smells like dirt.
When we arrive at our sleep spot, I pee under a tree with grey bark and put my toilet paper in a plastic bag to toss in a garbage bin. Macey and I fluff the bedding, so it doesn’t ‘taco’ and slide into separate sleeping bags. My window cracked leaves a sliver to feel the breeze and see the moon, a crescent behind the moving clouds.
The alarm sounds at 4:45 AM. I slept fitfully. My feet were too hot and my face too cold. I felt trapped between extremes. My dreams were of a concrete room with red lights strung from corner to corner. I stood in front of a yellow door with a black handle. I reach for the door, and the handle slides upwards, just shy of my fingertips. I rise to my tiptoes, and the handle creeps higher. When I lower my heels, the handle moves to its original place. The room is cold. I can hear sounds of silver wear against dish wear, the clatter of dining. There is no dialogue. I am aware of not breathing: there is no air in the room. I turn away from the door and see that I am standing in a cul-de-sac surrounded by restaurants and cafes. A long yellow and black school bus drives by. I wave to the faces in the window. No one waves back. It starts to rain, and as I feel the cold on my face, I open my mouth and take a breath of air.
I wake up.
Macey and I drive through the dark tunnel to the Grand Canyon National Park. We leave the van in a lot that holds perhaps sixteen vehicles at most. There is a pathway only locals know about. This trail used to be for tourists, Macey tells me. Now it’s only for wedding rentals and those who know about it. It won’t be busy.
The sky blushes navy. We strap on our packs and hike inward toward the Canyon cliffs to observe the sunrise. My body warms from the inside, my spine long and proud as I walk. I am sweating within minutes. Face flush, arms swinging, I relish the taste of heat within.
As we arrive at the cliff, I hear birds singing. The sky is a pale grey. The Canyon extends all around us. We put down our packs and sit on the cold jutting rock. I take the small stove, coffee, and cream from my backpack. It’s so windy that Macey has trouble catching a flame. We are not in a hurry. Coffee takes twenty minutes. The sky lightens to yellow and streaks of grey.
It’s too cloudy; we won’t get a red sunrise.
That’s ok. This reminds me of home. All the grey.
As the water boils, I watch the cave of the Canyon appear. The light transforms the landscape. Where there were shadows, now I can see the steep rock walls layered in between the mountains. The cliffs appear slowly, drawn from the darkness by the sunbeams. The scent of java and a hot mug in my hand.
That’s Zoroaster Temple, that peak there that looks like a nipple.
Macey perches to eat her oats, and I stand and take a walk around the ridge. I recognize the trees: fir, spruce, ponderosa, juniper, and aspen. The land becomes more affable with the sun; within moments, the gorge is a rich red.
The Canyon was cut by the Colorado River.
That’s where you and Jeff went river rafting?
Ya, the river initially began to cut through the layers of rock, channelling through; thats’ what formed the Canyon. The Spanish settlers were the first to pass through. Can you imagine? You’re walking through the forest, used to seeing the ocean, and all of a sudden; you see THIS through the trees. What a mind fuck.
I stand with my arms outstretched, taking in the range and impressions of peaks and ravines in my body. A hawk flies overhead. Its wings fan outwards as it swoops through the craggy buttresses. Sandy whites, pale and dark greens, soft yellows, muddy and plum reds, chocolatey browns and earthy greys; I am soaked in colour.
I understand geography like a puzzle. I gather new pieces for each day: silver chollera, barbary fig, senita, rocky mountain juniper. The cliffs are made of sedimentary, limestone, siltstone, mudstone, sandstone, and shale. Each layer presents itself individually from the next yet aligns imperfectly against the previous and succeeding stone.
Every leap I take with faith.
I trust that I will orient myself accordingly. I did not know Macey before I moved in with her and Jeff. How could I—how do you summarize a person? How can you ascertain the nuance without a direct experience of it? How can you say, I know this person, when all changes so silently we are hardly aware of its happening?
I must do to understand. I must act to evolve. I must attempt to express.
What is art if not embodied?
What is science, if not trial and error, before the formula is formed?
Thrusting forward head-on may cause injury. It is safer to straddle the world with both legs. Standing with the Grand Canyon, I open my mouth wide and call in the qualities of the hawk: independent, mutable, aware. I won’t get to where I am going if I walk in a straight line.
I don’t need to see a red sunrise over the Canyon’s ridge. I am happy with grey.
Maturation means leaning into the grey space: the potential of what could become. With age, the lines between what was and what is get a little blurry. The hard edges soften for you to see the space around the action. You are part of something greater and also contain multitude wholly unique. —Yoga Horoscope.
